


The Pilot

by thirsyduck



Series: Boathouse Bound [1]
Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: Angst, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-03 06:28:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24466453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thirsyduck/pseuds/thirsyduck
Summary: Six months since they hatched, and Donald loves his boys. They're his everything. It's just sometimes they can be... a lot. Nothing he can't handle, but maybe someone to watch them while he finishes repairs on the houseboat would be nice.That doesn't mean Donald needs help. He doesn't need anyone but his boys.
Relationships: Dewey Duck & Donald Duck & Huey Duck & Louie Duck
Series: Boathouse Bound [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1767196
Comments: 17
Kudos: 82





	The Pilot

**Act One, Scene One**

Donald brought the coffee mug to his bill with a shaky hand, the hot, bitter black drink sloshing around and spilling onto his fingers. He felt the heat, but the liquid slid off his feathers and dripped onto pristine white, wooden floors. He drank the coffee, not caring about it burning the back of his throat, or spilling out the sides of his beak and staining his old, needing-a -wash robe. Day three of less than two hours a sleep a night, and Donald found it difficult to care, more so than usual, about anything.

Anything, save for three six-month-old ducklings currently sleeping in their shared crib.

Hubert, Dewford, and Llewellyn. They were old enough to crawl now, which was why his floors were so impeccable. No longer were the floorboards rotting, splinters and broken boards dangerously sticking up. Donald had finished the repairs just in time. There were still a million more repairs to be made; the houseboat was nigh unlivable, definitely not up to whatever code the city deemed safe living conditions. But what choice did he have? He had bought the boat not long after the boys had been laid, some lame, ill-thought out effort to try and appeal to the boys as their cool uncle.

The one with a boat.

The boat with a leaky ceiling, no A.C., running water that wasn’t safe to drink, and some of the wooden walls were softer than the patch of mold in the corner of the bathroom. Meant to be a passion project over the course of several years, the boat’s need for repairs had been expeditiously sped up overnight. Now it had to be a home worthy craft and soon; Donald didn’t have the money to put them somewhere else. Not long term.

Donald sighed and sagged over the cracked kitchen counter, tired eyes on the half-full coffee pot like he was a coke addict looking for his next hit. What time was it? The clock in the kitchen had stopped working weeks ago and Donald hadn’t thought new batteries worth the expense. Maybe he should have, though, because with the electricity going out every other day, none of the clocks on the appliances were reliable. Both the oven and microwave blinked an annoying twelve-hundred at him. If only it were actually midnight, but no, it had to be much later— _earlier_.

Probably around three am; if Donald were to go outside, he could tell by the stars. But that would mean opening the door and letting cool air in, after he had just gotten the boat nice and cozy with all the hot water balloons scattered about its interior. The heat they emanated took a while to fully infuse the houseboat, but Donald didn’t touch fire, he nearly had a panic attack every time he turned on the microwave, even if he only ever used it to heat the boys’ formula.

Donald sat his empty mug down and picked up the pot, drinking straight from it, spilling more than he drank. Didn’t matter, he would make more. It was almost Dewey’s turn to wake up crying, anyway. Another reason he no longer bothered with clocks—Donald’s internal clock now revolved around the ducklings’ schedules. When their diapers needed to be changed, how long between feedings, their nap times, the turns they took waking up at night and crying. Louie was always the first, then after Donald had successfully rocked the boy back to sleep, Huey would wake up, like they were each on a timer thirty minutes apart. Donald always rushed to make sure they didn’t wake each other up, as he had learned early on the triplets were prone to sympathy crying.

“ _Waah-gwaah-waah!_ ”

Placing the empty coffee pot back in the holder, he stepped quickly into the boys’ room. Small, a tiny toy chest that wasn’t even full, stars painted on the walls, and a soft choo-choo train rug on the floor; it was the nicest room in the boat.

He picked up little Dewey, swaddled in a blue blanket, and rocked him in his arms, cooing and shushing the duckling as he carried him out into the living room. He sat on an old, ripped recliner and kissed the baby’s head as he continued to cry. Donald never knew why they cried at night. During the day he could reasonably guess the cause and effect: Louie had stolen one of Huey’s toys, or Dewey had fallen trying to climb up something he shouldn’t again. Louie cried the least, mostly only when he was denied his bottle past feeding time. At night though…

He wondered if it was because they missed her voice.

“Shhshhshh, you’re okay, baby blue.” Donald pat the duckling’s back and rocked in the recliner. As he rocked and cooed, the cries quieted down, and a soft smile plied at the corners of his bill. The softer Dewey’s cries became, the more relaxed Donald felt, the pot of coffee having done nothing for his exhausted state. His eyelids drooped, he continued to rock, his head bobbed up and down, and he blinked, shaking his head. The sleepy duck looked down at the sweet bundle in his arms and saw that the duckling had gone back to sleep. He breathed a tired, relieved sigh and stood from the recliner to place Dewey back in the crib.

He kissed all three of the boys’ fluffy yellow heads as he did, smiling down at them as they rested peacefully. Hopefully they would allow him to sleep in today, at least until the sun rose. Maybe let him get a solid three or four hours in. Wouldn’t that be a luxury? Donald chuckled, then quickly clamped a hand over his beak and looked worriedly down at the ducklings. Louie was snuggled up to Huey, wiggling around in his green blanket, but still sleeping. Donald’s shoulders sagged in relief and he hurriedly left the room before he could risk waking them further.

He sat back down on the recliner and wiggled into its weathered leather seat cushion. The living room was closer to the boys’ room than his own, and Donald didn’t trust the baby monitor enough to rely entirely on it at night. With his luck, the batteries would die in the middle of the night, Huey would roll over onto his face, suffocating before Donald ever realized anything was wrong.

Just the thought sent a tendril of fear rippling though him and Donald hopped off the recliner and rushed into the nursery and to the crib. But the boys were fine. It was just his paranoia again. They were fine. They were fine. They were fine. And they would continue to be fine long enough for Donald to catch a little bit of shuteye.

He needed the rest; he would start repairing the bathroom come early, _earlier_ morning. The boys were almost old enough to actually enjoy their toys in a bubble bath. And few fond childhood memories that Donald had—one of them was playing with a plastic tugboat in a bubble filled tub at his dearly deceased Grandma’s farm. It was where his love for boats originated from, or so he thought.

His grandmother had been the only parental figure in Donald’s life who hadn’t looked at him and seen a disappointment. Or wasted potential. Who understood every word he said because she made the effort. Thought he had been worth the effort. Who had only ever asked one thing of him in the not-long-enough time they had been together.

_And he had let her down_ —

Donald would to give the boys those same memories, happy memories, never making them feel unheard or like a burden. They wouldn’t be some cheap source of labor and if they _didn’t want to do something,_ he wouldn’t make them. He hoped their first words would sound nothing like him. That they wouldn’t be cursed with his same defect. Donald wanted so much for the triplets. He wanted them to share his fondness for the sea and love the water as much as he did….

Goodness, they were only six months old. A little early to be thinking about imposing his own wants and passions onto the ducklings. Besides, such behavior was a recipe for resentment, and Donald would know….

He shook his head and went back to the living room, to the recliner that’s seat was perfectly shaped to his rump, having served as a makeshift bed for the past six months. No blanket or pillows, his robe was good enough and Donald had slept in worse places under more strenuous conditions. He leaned back and kicked back the recliner’s leg rest. His eyes fluttered shut and white, bright dots danced behind his eyelids. Sleep began to edge into the recesses of his mind and Donald’s entire body relaxed, his breathing evened out, and—

“ _Waah-qwaah-uwaah_!”

His eyes shot open, wide awake.

**Scene Two**

Donald ripped up the bathroom’s ugly yellow, linoleum flooring with his bare hands. Awful stuff, who would ever think to use such a cheap material in a houseboat? Practically impossible to seal all the way; condensation and water had leaked through causing rot along the floorboards underneath. When he had first bought the boat, he had thought the soft bathroom floor was just due to the linoleum being a thicker cut than usual. Or, more like he had hoped. The floors in the rest of the boat had been easy enough to replace, it was simple carpentry. But so much more went into fixing a bathroom.

Cracked mirror, red mud stained tub, mold in the wood, on the wall above the tub; many would call the bathroom, the houseboat, a lost cause. The repair costs were astronomical, or they would be, if Donald weren’t doing all the repairs himself. All he needed were the materials and time—time he was running out of. The boys were starting to get too big to fit in the kitchen sink for their baths. They needed more room to splash around and develop their water wrings, so to speak. It was also only a matter of time before they started walking, between three and six months. Maybe sooner, if Dewey’s climbing attempts were anything to go by. He needed the houseboat safe and childproofed.

Donald had confidence in his ability to make all the repairs needed, what with him having been forced to make repairs to an aging mansion so a miserly man could skip out on contractor pay.

He tugged up the last of the linoleum, revealing the full extent of the damage to the wood underneath. Dark brown, soggy, patches of green and—were those worms? Donald stuck his tongue out in disgust. Gross. The boys definitely couldn’t be allowed to crawl into the bathroom, they’d think the worms were toys, or worse, food. Replacing the boards wouldn’t be too difficult, it was the mold that would be the hardest challenge. If he had the money, he would hire an expert, take the kids out while they used strong cleaners and let the mold soak. The fumes were a risk and even with masks, he didn’t want to chance the boys breathing in any of those toxic chemicals.

Even with just himself making the repairs, no chemicals involved, he didn’t want the boys in the houseboat while he made them. But what was he to do? He couldn’t hire a sitter, they would take one look at the boat and have child protective services down at the harbor within the hour. Send them to a sitter? There was no possible way Donald was trusting some random person to watch his boys. Highly qualified experts only.

He rolled up the linoleum and carried it out with him, head cast down as he passed by the cracked mirror. There was no one he could call to watch the boys. His friends, all two of them, had helped him enough while the boys were eggs. He couldn’t hold their lives back any more than he already had. The guilt had already eaten away at him the same way the mold had deteriorated the wooden floorboards: slowly, and difficult to fix. It had gotten to the point that when looking at his two best pals, all he could see was the wasted opportunities, the dreams they were giving up, the goals they were pushing back just to help him.

Panchito and José were amazing birds, they were going places in life and they wouldn’t get there on a stalled houseboat.

Who else could he call, then? His cousin Feathery had been sent off to an underground sea lab, and even if he hadn’t, Donald would never trust the ditzy duck to watch over his boys. Swell fellow, but Feathery could barely take care of himself, much less three very active ducklings. That only left him with…. No, never. Donald needed someone to help him, not rub his misfortune in his face. He would never sink so low as to call that galling goose for help. Besides, Donald had already come up with the perfect plan and place to take the boys while he finished repairs.

Daycare.

Chuckling at his own ingenuity, he carried the linoleum up the stairs to the boat’s main deck to dump the flooring in his room. Big, spacious, with the only furniture inside being a broken dresser he had found at a dump, and his hand sewn hammock, made out of what had previously been the boat’s old window curtains. It was perfect for storage. What few items of importance he possessed, after pawning off nearly everything he owned, were safely stored in the closet.

He didn’t stay long in the room; even with the boys still sleeping, he knew it would only be a matter of time before they woke up. And growing things that they were, they woke up hungry. He needed to clean up a little before preparing their formula; he wouldn’t dare risk any of the mold from the bathroom contaminating their bottles.

The boys had started crying just as he got back down stairs and he quickly rushed to wash off and prepare their formula, running into their nursery to pick them up and carry all three of the crying ducklings to the kitchen. He bounced them in his arms and smooched their soft little heads to quell their cries, rubbing his cheek against Huey’s head when the older triplet was the first to stop crying. What a good example, only six months old and already big brother material. Placing each of them in their own, wooden highchairs, Donald grabbed their bottles from the microwave just as it beeped.

Louie was given his bottle first, the youngest prone to throwing tantrums if either of his brothers got anything before him. Then Dewey, then Huey. They sucked away and Donald took a moment to admire their cuteness before going to grab their stroller from the nursery. Sleek and with a back cover, it was the same one the boys had been carried in as eggs and, like everything else, they were quickly outgrowing it. But a new one was out of the question; they were expensive and Donald already had harnesses ready for the day the boys fully outgrew the stroller.

He wheeled it out to the kitchen.

“You boys ready for….” He trailed off as he noticed milk all over the floor. The culprit? Huey, who was furiously shaking his bottle and banging it against the tray of his highchair. The bottle was empty, had the boy even drank any? Donald rolled his neck, his entire body tense. Formula was expensive, he had just cleaned those floors yesterday, and now Dewey was mimicking his brother’s behavior.

Left eye twitching, Donald rushed to snatch the bottle away from the easily influenced triplet, disappointed in the elder and taking back what he’d thought about setting a good example.

Louie, at least, was still happily drinking his own bottle. He was the chubbiest of the three and if Donald didn’t hurry up and clean the milk mess, the boy would throw a fit if Donald didn’t let him lick it up off the floor. Dewey was already starting to kick his feet in anger and slam his tiny fists onto the tray, demanding his bottle back with unintelligible gurbles. It would have been cute, amusing even, had Donald gotten any sleep within the past twenty-four hours.

As he hadn’t, the duck just sighed and rubbed a hand over the bridge of his beak.

“Dewey, please.” Donald stepped over to the duckling and lifted him out of his highchair, patting his back and lazily bouncing him in his arms. Next was Huey’s turn to start screeching, hungry after wasting his bottle, making Donald wince. He had never known ducklings could be so loud until Huey’s first tantrum. Donald lifted the screeching boy out of his highchair and balanced both of them in the crook of one arm while he started making Huey another bottle. He couldn’t give Dewey his while they were carried together or else risk them fighting over it. And he needed to work fast, once Louie noticed Donald preparing another bottle, he’d throw his own tantrum, thinking Huey was getting a second feeding and he wasn’t.

The boys were just so… lively. Full of spirit. Wonderful, he loved them. Just… sometimes he wished they’d taken a little less after their mother.

He placed the two screeching ducklings in the stroller and lifted Louie up, still drinking the last drops of his bottle, and put him in with the others. He quickly covered the stroller so the younger duckling wouldn’t see anything… and maybe to muffle the others’ cries. Even without seeing a new bottle being prepared, he expected Louie to start crying soon too, just because the others were doing it.

Donald wished instant formula was even more instant, because in the time it took him to prepare Huey a new bottle, Louie was, in fact, crying. Shaking his head, Donald opened the stroller up and lifted Dewey and Huey out of it, closing it back on Louie. He felt a pang of guilt at ignoring the boy’s cries, but there was nothing to be done about them. He couldn’t be given another bottle. The ducklings were on a strict feeding schedule, made stricter by the fact that Donald had budgeted out every single bottle the boys would ever drink and couldn’t afford one single more.

Which made little tantrums like these all the more frustrating.

How old before he could explain, before the boys could _understand_ , that they couldn’t waste a single scrap of food? Donald had their every expense planned until their eighteenth birthday, had sold nearly everything he owned to ensure they never went hungry or were without the essentials.

Then they go and toss away their formula, they break their toys, they go through way more diapers than he could have ever anticipated, they just….

...were babies, and Donald needed to calm down. He rocked on the heels of his webbed feet, the familiar heat of anger making his face flush. He gave his head a little shake and hurriedly placed both boys into the stroller with their bottles. If Louie stole one of them, then that could just be their lesson not to waste food.

He closed the stroller’s cover

It wasn’t their fault. It wasn’t their fault. It wasn’t their fault. No, no, no, they were little ducklings and had no idea the hardships Donald was going through to keep their home afloat, literally.

He grabbed the single spare bottle he owned, sitting on the counter, just for something to hold. Something to clench his fist around as he stomped into the spare room beside the bathroom, feeling an episode coming on.

Donald slammed the door behind him, shaking, counting down from ten in a futile attempt to stave off his anger. Misplaced, misdirected; the inside of the room looked like a tornado full of sharks had blown through. Shredded pillows on the floor, scratches along the wooden walls, a smashed fax machine off in a corner...it was Donald’s aptly-, if not creatively, named anger room. His breath came out in wheezy rasps, his vision became hazy, and he launched himself into the air, smashing the glass bottle against the floor as he did.

“Gwawawawawawa!”

He bounced back and forth, teeth bared and fists held out in front of him, prepped against an imaginary foe.

Then he hopped onto broken glass and hissed, snatching his knee up into his arms and bouncing back until he ran into a wall.

“Oh….” Back pressed against the wall, his anger deflated like a balloon, and he slid down onto the floor, a trail of blood following as he splayed his legs out in front of him. That was a bottle Donald hadn’t been prepared to replace. It was a nice bottle, Panchito had gifted it to him. The rooster had brought all his siblings’ old baby items with him when he’d moved in with Donald to help him with the eggs. It had been such a kind, thoughtful gesture...what a waste.

“Bother, bother….” Donald ran a hand over his feathered head, brows furrowed. Lack of sleep was making his already terrible temper worse. He had thought…had hoped that he would have been able to overcome his awful disposition through sheer love of his boys. Like something out of a movie where love conquers all.

The duck snickered derisively at his own naiveté. Something so lucky would never happen to him. Donald should have learned by now there was no good coming his way. Those boys were the best thing to ever happen to him, and what had he done? Broken one of their bottles and ran off to express his anger in the unhealthiest way possible. He knew better, so why couldn’t he **do** better?

But…what else was he to do?

Get the triplets into daycare. Get some sleep. Fix the boat. That’s what he needed to do, and it wouldn’t happen with him hiding away in his anger room.

Just to be safe, Donald counted down from ten again. Then again. He didn’t stop until the heat in his chest had completely cooled, until he knew for sure, or as much as he could know, that he wouldn’t leave the room just to snap again. The temperamental duck had gotten better, _much_ better, at telling when he was going to have an anger induced episode. But he still struggled to recognize anything but the most obvious signs of his anger building. Sometimes it came out of nowhere, for the most mundane of reasons, sometimes he…didn’t make it to the anger room.

Sometimes he thought the boys’ tantrums were learned behavior from him.

Another powerful reason to have them enrolled in a daycare, where they could interact with other younglings and be around better examples of what an adult should be, not a mess of a duck struggling to hold his life together like it was some decrepit boat crumbling down around him.

Heh.

Donald pushed himself up and winced as his injured foot connected with the floor. Using the wall for balance, he lifted his webbed foot up to inspect the damage. A small fragment of glass had dug itself in deep. It was the tiny prick size that was enough to be painful, but not enough to be considered serious. He dug the glass out with his fingers, hissing as it went deeper before he finally got a grip on it and pulled it out. Some disinfectant and a band aid would have to be enough. His medical supplies were meant for real emergencies only.

What with none of them having insurance, just one trip to the hospital could wipe out a year’s worth of savings.

He looked down at the broken glass, the blood splatters around it and the trail where he had dragged his foot along the floor. Donald pursed his bill, deciding it could be cleaned later, after he had gone to the daycare. Their appointment was in two hours and with Donald’s luck he already felt like they were leaving too late.

With a final deep, calming breath, Donald left the room, limping every other step. There was no crying to be heard, which quickened his steps. No noise from the boys was just as worrying as their cries. How long had he been in that room?

He threw up the stroller’s lid and stared worriedly down at its precious contents. Huey was rolled onto his side, snuggled against Louie as he napped, the younger duckling peacefully letting him as he sucked on what was clearly not his bottle. Dewey was rolling from side to side, wiggling and smiling at nothing, and Donald’s heart melted when little Dewford’s smile brightened and the duckling giggled at seeing his uncle. Oh, how could he ever had been mad at them? Precious boys, they deserved the best.

Which was exactly the daycare he was taking them to. The one with the best reviews, the most recommendations; if Donald couldn’t leave his boys there, where could he? Nowhere, which was why they needed to be heading out…right after Donald patched up his cut foot.

**Scene Three**

Donald gently rolled the stroller back and forth, his uninjured webbed-foot tapping nervously as he sat in the daycare’s nursery room. It was such a nice place, with a tall ceiling, colorful decor, soft padded floors, framed qualifications and rankings as Duckburg’s best daycare adorning the walls. All real reassuring, if a bit intimidating. A place like this…it couldn’t be cheap, could it? But how expensive could daycare be? If a certain miser Donald refused to name had done it, taking in twins, it couldn’t be too costly.

“Mr. Duck?” a feminine voice called, the receptionist sitting behind a desk not far from the main office, chewing gum and, judging by her expression, scrolling through something boring on her computer.

Donald immediately stood, spine rigid as he answered, “Present.”

Oh boy, he cringed after saying it. He was here to apply for the boys to be in daycare, not enroll himself by sounding like some primary school child.

“Mm, the assistant director will see you now.” An audible pop followed as the receptionist puckered her lips and blew another disinterested bubble, clearly not paid enough to care; that was a good sign on price, right?

Donald nodded nervously and rung his hands together before taking a deep breath and placing his sweaty palms on the stroller’s handle. He just needed to go in, sign some paperwork, and then the boys would be taken care of. Then the houseboat would be taken care of. And then Donald could stop worrying about someone peeking through their windows and calling child protective services on him.

Limping, he pushed the stroller into the office and, too nervous to look around, simply sat in the small wooden chair in front of a desk with the plaque _assistant director_ sat atop it. Donald forced a smiled as he sat, the cool room still causing him to sweat. He took his sailor cap off to dab at his brow as he waited to be addressed not sure if he should speak first.

The assistant director on the opposite side of the desk was a stern looking woman, a rat of some sort, with her long black hair slicked back, patted low enough to almost blend in with her fur. No makeup, no greeting, and no smile as Donald gulped and tugged on the red bow-tied neckerchief at his collar.

Oh boy. Guess he had to speak first. Not something he ever liked to do.

“Hello, I’m here to enroll my boys in your daycare….” He trailed off, smile strained as the assistant director looked him up and down, her black eyes cold and appraising. Had Donald been any less nervous, the silent evaluation would have irritated, maybe even angered him.

Thank goodness he was nervous.

Finished with her assessment, the woman rested her elbows on the desk, clasped her hands together, and rested her chin on the threaded digits as she leaned forward, a forced business smile spread across her long face.

“So, Mr. Duck, I understand you’re the triplets’ uncle, and not the father?” She said it like it was some awful truth, but Donald just nodded.

“Yup, I’m taking care of them now and just need a place for them to stay while I work.” An honest answer, mostly; Donald didn’t have a job, but fixing the houseboat was most certainly work.

“…What was that?” She tilted her head, a fuzzy brow raised as she said, “Mr. Duck, I’ll have to ask you to speak slower. You’re…ahem, slightly difficult to…well, again, please; I didn’t quite understand you the first time.”

Donald’s left eyelid twitched and he clenched his hands around his cap.

“I…Need…a place…for them to…stay…while I…work,” he spoke slowly, enunciating every word to the best of his ability, limited that it was.

“Oh, yes, well of course. But why you? Where are the children’s parents? If I read your file correctly, you’re just an uncle.” She said it so casually, like it was an appropriate question to ask and not something Donald should throw that shiny plaque at her for.

Just an uncle. **Just** an uncle. Why, he oughta—

“Their mother is off, away on a…space adventure? She’s an astronaut, yeah-yeah.” Donald nodded, proud of his clever little turn around. Technically, he wasn’t wrong. The triplets’ mother was off on an adventure, the final adventure everyone would someday go on.

Miss Snooty didn’t look like she understood him any better than before, but she apparently had been able to pick out one word as she asked, “And the father?”

Ha, wouldn’t Donald like to know that same question.

“He couldn’t make it either; both very busy ducks. That’s why I— _they_ need this daycare.”

Again, Donald didn’t know if it was professionalism or lack of interest that stopped the rat from asking him to repeat himself, because she clearly hadn’t understood a word he said, just nodded along with that glass-eyed look Donald had seen so many times whenever he tried to have a conversation with a stranger. And while the duck would never be thankful for his wretched voice, he was glad it caused the assistant director to limit her prying.

“Alright, Mr. Duck.” She opened a drawer in her desk and pulled out a manila folder, holding it out to him. “Here’s a list of documents we need from you and all related forms for enrollment. We’ll hold your spot for the rest of the month, but after that it’s back on the waiting list.”

“…waiting list?” Donald didn’t remember any waiting list. He’d called the center, told them his name, the boys’ names, ages, and not long after had received a call back saying he could meet them within the week.

“Yes, don’t you-er, wait, the director left a note on your f-f-file.” Miss Snooty’s eyes widened as she looked from the file to Donald, the papers inside rattling as her hand visibly shook.

“I’m so sorry Mr. Duck, please, take all the time you need to get the documents to us; your spot is on indefinite hold.” Her business smile had turned sickly sweet, even less sincere, and instantly suspicious. 

His eyes narrowed and, forgetting himself, Donald reached forward to snatch the file from her.

“Hey, wait—”

On the cover was a little yellow sticky note.

_Donald Duck, nephew of Scrooge McDuck $$$_

_Enroll at all cost_

An unpleasant warmth crept up the back of Donald’s neck, making the top of his head tingle. Reading the name was all it took to send a flash of rage through him and he hopped up on his chair, tearing the note to pieces and huffing as he watched the little yellow strips fall to the floor.

“Muh…Mr.Duck….” The woman struggled to speak, her hand dipping underneath the desk to push some unseen button.

Donald furiously pointed a finger at her, “You’ll have your papers by the end of the month!”

He then hopped out of the chair, snatched up the folder she had initially held out to him and stormed out of the office. His brash exit was made less impressive by his limp, by the way he carefully rolled the stroller forward, as to not jostle the sleeping ducklings inside.

There were two tall dogs clad in all black standing outside of the office, glaring at the duck as he pushed the stroller out of the building. Donald glared right back, his shoulders hunched as anger continued to course through him.

Even six months out with no contact, that name continued to follow him. Even as he loaded the boys back into the car, placed them in their car seats and tossed the stroller into the back, he could see the name. Donald closed his eyes, grit his teeth, and counted down from one hundred. The name Scrooge McDuck flashed behind his eyelids like a warning sign, telling him not to drive until he’d calmed down.

He couldn’t afford another road rage incident, another ticket, and he would _never_ risk the boys by driving angry.

“One hundred, ninety-nine, ninety-eight….” He paced beside the car, not caring how he looked to passerbys.

Miserable, miserly, scoundrel. Donald knew his uncle had nothing to do with the daycare center. He would never call on Donald’s behalf or, _eugh_ , help him. Donald had made it perfectly clear that he wanted nothing to do with the old man, and Scrooge had turned right around and proved how vindictive he could be by giving Donald less than a day to gather his things, get the boys, and get out of his blasted mansion.

“Sixty-six, sixty-five, sixty-four…” Donald grabbed his sailor cap and wrung it between his hands, stretching and twisting the durable fabric as his heart rate started to slow down.

He didn’t need Scrooge; the self-centered geezer was the whole reason the ducklings needed daycare in the first place, was the reason the boys’ mother wasn’t around to care for them like she should have.

The both of them!

Reckless, shallow, fools. They both had preached at him the importance of family, but when it came time to test those words, they’d both chosen adventure over family. Over the boys. _His_ boys, who needed more than Donald could possibly provide for them. But he would, he wouldn’t back down from the challenges of parenthood, wouldn’t run off in _some calamitous spaceship like_ —

His heart rate picked back up and Donald continued counting.

“Thirty-three, thirty-two, thirty-one….” Donald gripped the front of his uniform and pulled it up, fanning himself with the material in a weak attempt to relieve the heat in his chest. Counting wasn’t working, but then when did it ever?

He didn’t need their help, didn’t need _anyone’s_ help. Family? Bah! As far as Donald was concerned, the only family that mattered was currently napping in their car seats. He and the boys had survived six months on their own and they would continue to survive. Thrive even, once he finished repairing the houseboat. All Donald needed was for someone to watch the boys while he did it, and he would be paying the daycare; that didn’t count as help, it was a service.

“Ten, nine, eight, seven, six….” Donald put his cap back on and rubbed a hand over his face, the heat finally dying down. Okay, he was calm. He could drive them home and figure out everything needed for the boys to be enrolled. Paperwork wasn’t hard; Donald was a licensed accountant. He could handle a little paperwork. It was fine. Everything was fine.

Deep breath. And he’s good.

**Act Two, Scene One**

Happy, giggling boys crawled around inside a colorful playpen. Another gift from Panchito; Donald appreciated it most. The pen kept the boys safe while giving them plenty of space to play. It also fit perfectly around the rug in their nursery, meaning their tender knees didn’t bruise against the houseboat’s hard, wooden floors.

Of course, Louie already knew how to break out of the pen, but Donald usually had an hour after putting them in before the youngest duckling grew bored enough to try.

The drive back to the harbor had been an uneventful one, thankfully. Donald hated going out in the car because of all the risks it posed, both to the boys and the car itself. He preferred traveling on foot with the stroller; it meant less expensive repairs whenever the calamity that followed Donald everywhere he went struck. Fixing himself was relatively inexpensive, proficient in first aid as he was. However, he was no expert mechanic and if something were to happen to the car, he would be at a loss of what to do. Until the houseboat was ship shape, he didn’t want to risk spending money on anything else besides daycare.

Donald relaxed into the recliner, munched on a stale chocolate protein bar, and began reading over the terms and conditions for the daycare—one of the many documents stapled together and included in the folder Miss Snooty had given him. He already had an idea of what would be needed to enroll the boys: their birth certificates, list of immunizations, and maybe an emergency contact list. What else could they possibly need? Well, just to be safe Donald had his official documents shoe box sitting on the tray table next to the recliner. The tray table was an old, worn thing, like everything else in the houseboat, but it wasn’t rusty or moldy and it was better than no table at all.

He read over the liability clause, the list of registered head teachers, regular teachers, and assistant teachers. Whatever the difference was. Then, finally at the back of the list of papers was a checklist of everything needed for children to be enrolled. Hm.

Common application, emergency contact form, birth certificate, immunization records, proof of…of guardianship or custody.

Donald reread the words over and over, the dread inside him growing with each repeated reading. Proof of guardianship. He didn’t…the boys’ registered guardian was still their mother. She had never…. _Of course_ , she hadn’t. There were no records identifying Donald as the boys’ primary guardian. Nothing that gave him official custody over the ducklings.

His head shook and he ran a hand through short white locks. Oh, what to do. He had never thought of such a thing. What even _was_ proof of guardianship? He had the boys and he was their primary caretaker; shouldn’t that be enough? But no, of course it wasn’t, when was it ever that simple? The universe would never be so kind to Donald Duck.

He stood from the recliner and started pacing, the documents held behind his back.

Proof of guardianship.

What did Donald have, other than his own assurances to authorities that he was the ducklings’ guardian? The boys’ mother. His sister. Della. She had never been officially declared missing. Not from Donald’s lack of trying, but that… his _contemptible_ uncle had been so determined to bury his mistake that he’d fought Donald every step of the way, refusing to acknowledge Della was gone, that she was never coming back. And it was Scrooge’s fault. Della bore some of the blame, Donald knew, but it was hard to stay mad at a dead woman, especially when the harbinger of her death pretended he wasn’t the one who had slipped the noose around her neck.

But oh-ho, it wasn’t just that.

Scrooge may have wanted to bury his mistake, but not the duck herself. That cheap, despicable old man hadn’t even _afforded_ Donald the peace of mind that came with a funeral. He wouldn’t let her be declared missing, much less pronounced dead. Anytime Donald had tried stepping in to declare his sister missing, one of Scrooge’s lawyers would step up and explain that she was just late returning from her most recent adventure. And who were the authorities going to believe? The world’s richest and most influential billionaire, or a duck with multiple arrests on his record for disturbing the peace?

That had left Donald with no choice but to take the boys and denounce any relation to Scrooge McDuck. Not that he hadn’t already planned on doing that, but their fighting was what had pushed his uncle to kick him out over the course of a single day instead of allowing him the previously promised week.

It wasn’t the first time his uncle had broken a promise; he had built the Spear of Selene behind Donald’s back, after all.

Oh! Just thinking about it got him so hopping mad. Donald’s grip of the papers tightened and he had to toss them to the ground as to avoid tearing them in his anger. He still needed them; the boys still needed to be in daycare long enough for Donald to fix the houseboat. Not only before they were walking, but before typhoon season hit. Winter was ending soon, they didn’t have A.C., the roof leaked, and in its current state, Donald didn’t trust the boat to weather a storm.

Maybe…maybe Della had thought far enough ahead to leave Donald with some written proof of joint custody over the boys. His sister may have had the foresight of a bat, but when it came to her kids, maybe even she would have taken precautions.

Not enough to keep her from blasting into space, but maybe…. Well, there was only one way to find out.

Donald tossed the lid to the shoe box aside and started rummaging through it. The boys’ birth certificates, Della’s pilot registry form, Donald’s boating license, the boys’ list of immunizations, his college diploma, his sister’s GED. The houseboat’s title, car title, insurance, nothing about guardianship. Nothing that proved Donald was anything more than just the triplets’ uncle.

He threw the box to the ground and kicked it.

“ _Bahwawa!_ ” He hopped and shoved the tray table over, he stomped in front of the recliner, arms held rigidly at his sides, hands clenched into fists. The pain in his foot went unregistered, anger being the only thing Donald could feel in that moment.

Why couldn’t anything ever be easy? Why was the entire world out to get him, to hurt him? To take everything away from him? No proof of guardianship went so much deeper than not being able to enroll his ducklings in daycare. What if one of the boys had a medical emergency, could Donald sign off on anything for them? What about getting them medical insurance? What about enrolling them in _school?_

He couldn’t do any of those as **just** an uncle, no more than a babysitter while Della was merely _off on an adventure._

“Razza frazza, no good gosh darn Dumbella….” Donald kicked the papers on the floor, only to slip and land hard on his back, knocking the air out of him, and with it, his anger.

“Oof.” He rolled over onto his front, but otherwise stayed on the floor.

Oh, Della, Della, Della...what was he to do? Donald had been prepared from day one of his sister laying her eggs to be their primary caretaker. His sister had wanted kids, little adventurers of her own, but she hadn’t quite grasped that once they hatched, the boys would be her primary adventure, at least until they were old enough to accompany her. Would she have gone off to the Amazon with Scrooge while the boys were in school? Or would she have ostracized the triplets the same way their uncle had them; homeschooling them both so she had unrestricted access to her little co-adventurers? Or, in Scrooge’s case, a free pilot and sailor.

Yeah, that had worked out real swell. Donald was such a great conversationalist and Della wasn’t awkward around new people at all. She definitely didn’t come off way too strong and wouldn’t know how to take a hint if it smacked her upside the face.

No, Donald supposed she wouldn’t. Anymore. Or ever again.

A deep breath, a count down from ten, and Donald pushed himself up onto his knees. His entire body slumped as he started to pick up and stack the papers he’d so imprudently thrown to the floor. What if he’d ripped them? They were all important, precious; the memories of how they were obtained as well as the written words themselves.

If only Della had, at the very least, granted him secondary guardianship over the boys. Just so he could make calls on her behalf while she _was_ on adventures. It wouldn’t have been hard, just a quick trip to the Duckburg courthouse and a few signed papers.

But she hadn’t, couldn’t anymore. It was too late and if he didn’t think of something to establish his guardianship over the boys, he could run into serious legal trouble later. And he knew he would—if there was a path chance could take to hurt Donald Duck, it would. Every time.

The unlucky duck had realized the world was out to get him during his youth, had that realization driven into driven his skull after his sister had disappeared into that cosmic storm. And now it looked like the final nail was being hammered into the coffin, because if anything were to happen to his boys, if he were to lose them…Donald didn’t think he could…there would be no reason to continue….

He shuddered, going from hot to cold so fast it left him drained and too tired to even finish that thought. There was no point, anyway. Nothing was going to happen to the boys; he would like to see someone try to take his ducklings from him. Disturbing the peace would be the _least_ of Donald’s crimes.

His body shook and the heavy weight of exhaustion kept him from standing. His stomach hurt, like acid was eating away at his insides, and his head was pounding more than usual. Donald needed sleep. He was so tired. But it was still the middle of the day, so much needed to be done, to be figured out. The boys needed their lunch, he needed to take the linoleum to the dump, he needed to finish cleaning up his mess, both out in the living room, and inside the anger room. Blood stained something awful and he really didn’t want to replace more flooring than he already had.

Still shaking, Donald continued to stack the displaced papers, reading over them as he did. He needed to keep out the boys’ immunization records and birth certificates. As he read, he noticed a form he didn’t remember. Ah, it was meant for the parents only. Merely an uncle, Donald wouldn’t have seen or signed it for his ducklings. Only…no, this one wasn’t for the boys. It was for himself and Della, both their names being stamped across the top. What was it…?

The standard certificate of laying: a form that came with eggs being laid, the two-page questionnaire that listed any possible complications, parental medical history, the date the eggs were laid. If there were multiple. If they were….

Twins.

The blacks of his eyes shrunk, white feathers stood on end; Donald’s brows curled up, inward, and he stuck his tongue out as a terrible, wicked grin stretched across his beak.

Twins.

“Eh-heh, heh, heheh.” His breaths, laughs, were wheezy, almost delirious as they struggled out of his lungs.

Della wasn’t missing. She wasn’t dead.

She could still give him custody.

**Scene Two**

Donald couldn’t remember the last time he had been inside a mall. They were awful places to be: crowded, stuffy, overpriced, and everything inside a mall could be found somewhere else cheaper. Or at least that was true of the Duckburg Mall. Having the two richest ducks in the world, along with their multitude of enterprises, inside the city had made it one of the most expensive places to live. If not for it also having some of the lowest crime rates as well as the best schools in the country, and his houseboat literally not being able to leave the harbor, Donald would packed up the boys and sailed to a more affordable town the day they left the manor.

Or at least, that’s what he told himself.

Staying in Duckburg had nothing to do with the easy view of the money bin it gave him, or the news of its increasingly reclusive owner that played over the local radio. Donald didn’t care about any of that, he just…wanted his boys to have the best. That was all.

With his gaze firmly forward, Donald ignored the shops he passed by, grateful the stroller acted as a barrier between himself and the other mall goers. His old college backpack, now repurposed as a diaper bag, was slung over his shoulder and swayed as he walked. The only reason he was in the mall was because he needed professional help. Free, professional help. Everything else Donald needed to enact his plan had been easy enough to obtain on his own.

Information on how to grant joint guardianship to a relative? Easy, he’d read up about it at the local library. Clothes? He’d had saved some of his sisters during the move from the manor, nicer garments than what she typically wore, tucked away safely in the back of his closet. He’d mainly kept them for the fabric, they were made of expensive material and Donald had planned on deconstructing them and sewing the boys some news clothes once they out grew their _one-size-fits-all_ onesies. Shoes? Well, he’d found those at a bargain bin. The heels had been snapped, but easy enough to glue back on. They’d cost less than a dollar each. Hair? Had Donald the time, he would have simply grown his out, but as he didn’t, the white doll’s wig he had also found at the bargain bin would have to do. It had come with a purple bow already attached and everything.

All that was left was a means to make his face more…feminine. He and Della were twins, but Donald didn’t trust that he could successfully pass as her in just a wig and fancy blouse. His beak was longer, eyes narrower. He needed something to soften his edges and he needed someone to teach him how to do it.

Which was why he was currently heading to his first, and only, free consultation at the makeup store Glaphora: an expensive, well-known chain named after a celebrity Donald had never heard of. The price wasn’t a problem, though, because the duck didn’t plan on actually buying the makeup he needed. The consultation was meant to draw new customers in and came with free samples of every product used. Donald would just be sure to use a lot of product during his visit. Even after being shown the correct way to apply lipstick or eye shadow, concealer, and whatever else it was that women wore, he doubted he’d be able to perfectly apply it on his first try. Fortunately, he already knew how to apply eyeliner.

Thank his days as a moody, brooding teen for that. His sister had mocked him, but who was laughing now? Not Della; not ever again.

A strong, rancid scent drifted up from inside the stroller and Donald, so used to it, didn’t even curl his beak in disgust. He just sighed, breathing in more of the stench as he searched out the nearest bathroom and began wheeling the stroller over to it. He wanted to get the boys out of their dirty diapers before they could make too much of a mess of their feathers. Duckling wipes weren’t cheap, and he went through more of them than the diapers themselves. It didn’t help that if Donald wasn’t fast enough with the changing, or even noticing they needed to be changed, Dewey would find some way to play with his. Using the gross liquidy clumps as a paint. On the nursery room walls, the floor, his own brothers.

Donald pushed the stroller into the family bathroom, locked the door, and pulled out the changing tray on the wall. He sat his backpack on the ground and pulled out a pack of diapers. From the strength of the stink, it was more than one diaper needing to be changed. He laid out a protective paper covering over the tray and opening up the stroller, smiling down at the boys, all sucking away at their pacifiers. They’d behaved so well this morning. Donald hadn’t gotten anymore sleep than usual, but there had been no breakfast messes, no fighting or climbing. It was like they realized how serious a time they were in. A few days since coming up with his admittedly abhorrent plan, and the boys had been on their best behavior. Not since before they’d hatched had Donald such an easy time with them.

He cooed and smooched Louie’s chubby cheek as he picked the duckling up, the strongest scent emanating off of him. He placed the boy on the tray and waggled his fingers over the stroller, heart melting when Dewey, the other stinker, spat his pacifier out to giggle at him.

Awww.

The edges of Donald’s tired eyes crinkled upward as he smiled down at his boys. Everything he was doing was for them. As uncomfortable and wretched as thinking of what was to come made him feel, it was all worth it. For them, he’d make any sacrifice. Dignity, pride, morals. What good were they if upholding them lost him his ducklings?

He made short work of changing Louie, the youngest duckling content to lay back as Donald swiped, wiped, and wrapped. After placing Louie back in the stroller, he picked up Dewey, prepared to do the same. He got the diaper off and then—

A long stream of yellow liquid shot out from the boy and Donald was too late to leap back before it hit him in the face. A majority of it landed on his beak and he leaned forward to prevent any of the disgustingly warm liquid dripping onto his uniform. Oh bother, oh boy. Without opening his eyes, Donald fumbled for the sink and hastily turned on the water once he’d found it, splashing his face with the cold and using the hand soap to scrub, hissing when suds got into an eye. Heat began building at the center of his forehead, and Donald turned the water as cold as it would go, repeatedly splashing it onto his face to cool his head.

It was his fault, anyway. The duck couldn’t be mad at Dewey, he knew the boy was a pea shooter and should have been prepared to dodge the moment he got the diaper off. The triplets had been behaving, but they hadn’t magically become different ducklings overnight. It was his fault; he shouldn’t be angry. Wouldn’t be. It was fine. It was just his beak, none of it had gotten on his….

_His neckerchief!_

Donald eye’s widened, one red from the sting of soap, as he noticed dark stains of what definitely wasn’t water on his bright red neckerchief, tied into a square, bow like knot around his neck.

“Damnit, Dewey!” Donald snapped, only to slam a hand onto the sink’s corner and stomp his injured foot on the floor. He grit his teeth and curled forward as the purposefully inflicted pain shot up his leg and made his hand throb. He couldn’t have an episode. Not here, not now. Even behind a locked bathroom door, they were in public and had business that needed to be taken care of. He couldn’t risk being thrown out.

And it wasn’t Dewey’s fault.

He heard a sniffle from behind him and turned to see his blue boy with a trembling lower bill.

“Oh, oh, oh….” Donald’s brows furrowed in guilt and he quickly returned to the duckling’s side. “I’m sorry, so sorry….” He finished changing and cleaning the boy, then lifted him up to cradle in his arms. The sniffling stopped and Donald felt no less guilty, but he was no longer worried about having an episode.

Donald kissed the top of Dewey’s head, the tip of his tiny bill, apologizing after every little smooch. He didn’t want to let go, but from where the sun had been positioned when they’d first arrived at the mall, he knew they were already cutting it close on their appointment. The store only gave one free consultation; he couldn’t afford to miss it.

**Scene Three**

Sans one red neckerchief, Donald stood inside Glaphora, not far from the entrance, tapping a webbed-foot and checking a watch on his wrist that he didn’t have. Nothing but white feathers. Nothing at all to indicate the time. Was he too early, too late? Why hadn’t he been greeted yet?

…Was it because, far as Donald could tell, he was the only man inside the store?

That would explain the eyes the duck sensed staring at him. He felt like tiny needles were pricking the side of his head, and even though he didn’t see anyone turned his way, Donald swore he was being watched. Had to be. How strange must he look? A single man in sailor uniform, black stroller by his side, ratty backpack thrown over his shoulder. Everyone must be wondering what such a dumpy looking duck was doing in a nice store like Glaphora.

What _was_ he doing?

Donald swallowed, nerves acting up as he checked his imaginary watch once more, only to hear a cough and a thick southern accent ask—

“Mista’ Donald Duck?”

He looked up to see a short duck with a thick, wide beak, dark brown hair, and if he was honest; who was wholly unremarkable to look at. There was barely any color to be seen on her face, was she really a worker in one of the world’s most prolific makeup stores? Donald questioned, but the name tag and all black uniform she wore was answer enough.

Well, she didn’t exactly spark confidence, but Donald would withhold his judgment. He wasn’t exactly much to look at either, not at the moment. Deep bags under his eyes, white plumage dulled from poor nutrition, and underweight, having lost most of his muscle mass over the course of six months. Lack of food, sleep, and exercise will do that to a duck.

“That’s me,” he nodded, pointing to his chest with a thumb.

“… S’cuse me?” She tilted her head and white-hot irritation flashed before Donald’s eyes.

“Donald,” he said again, still pointing at his chest. He had only spoken two words and the woman was already acting like he’d talked in tongues. How was he to get any help when everything he said went unheard.

“Oh, right.” Her brows rose and an apologetic expression replaced her confused one. “Sorry fer the delay Mr. Duck, it’s the weekend an’… well, things can get perty busy.” She tilted her head toward the rest of the store, but Donald didn’t need to look. He already had.

Same as the rest of the mall, Glaphora was packed. Young and old women walked about the narrow aisles, looking at makeup Donald hadn’t known existed until five minutes ago. What even was contouring? Would he need it? Sounded complicated. The strong scent of too much perfume was also thick in the air. It had caused him to close the lid on the stroller, worried for his boys’ sensitive little nostrils. Had he not been so used to the smell of soiled diapers, Donald was sure it would have sickened him.

“If you’ll jus’ follow me, we can get started on yer consultation.” She then turned from him, not waiting for a response as she walked deeper into the store. And Donald, ready to begin, followed her.

“Will Mrs. Duck be joinin’ us?” she asked as she walked.

“No,” he responded. One syllable, short and easy to understand. If the worker didn’t understand something so simple, he’d just ask for another representative.

“Alright then; this visit to pick out a gift, or….” She trailed off, coming to a stop beside a long, black vanity shared by multiple mirrors.

Donald shook his head as he placed the stroller along its outer side. “It’s for my sister. Who…who looks just like me. We’re twins. See, she’s got an important…thing coming up and needs to look as lady like as possible. Whatever you have that will go with a purple blouse will…I mean it’s very important she look natural and normal. Not too much, but enough t-to look…not like me?”

Oh golly, he was rambling. Donald had practiced a speech in his head, but when it came to actually saying the words, he stumbled. His old public speaking professor would be disappointed…more than usual.

He snatched his cap off his head and wrung it between his sweaty hands, an awful, nervous habit he needed to get out of unless he wanted the cap to go the same way as his red neckerchief: the trash.

Did it even matter why he needed the consultation? Oh, but Donald didn’t want her to think it was really, truly for him. He’d had thought too much about how anyone knowing he was buying makeup for himself could be turned against him. The universe would, if it could, sabotage Donald’s plan to establish joint guardianship over the boys. He had to be extra careful, super secretive to make sure nothing went wrong. The universe was always listening, always out to get him; the less he spoke the better.

“Ah didn’t understand a lick of what ya jus’ said, hun. But…” Her smiled became less forced and customer-servicey; softening as she placed a hand over his shoulder and gently squeezed.

Donald flinched.

“Ah get ya. Really, ain’t no more splainin’ needed. Ya know, Ah got a brother...” She shook her head, removed her hand, and stepped further back, gesturing for him to take a seat on one of the stools at the vanity.

No, no, no, no. She didn’t—

“Don’t worry, hun, Ah’ll help ya best Ah can. We’ll have ya lookin’ pertier than a yellow lily on a spring day.”

Donald blanched.

Exactly what he didn’t want to happen had just happened. The woman thought he was some…that he was trying to pass himself off as a woman. Which he was! But he didn’t want her, or anyone else for that matter, to know. If she knew, she could recognize him the day of his court appointment. If she was at the court house during his appointment. With his luck, she would be. She’d notice him and point out that he wasn’t who he was claiming to be. And she would know about who he was claiming to be because the mysterious cosmic entity out to get Donald would whisper it in her ear. Everything he had planned would come crumbling down around him. He would be arrested for identity fraud, the boys would be taken away from him, and—

Donald sat on the stool, sweat making the fabric under his arms dark. His heart beat wildly in his chest, not in anger, but panic. Sweat dripped off his brow, down the corners of his bill, and he lifted the bottom of his uniform to wipe it away.

What would Donald do if the Glaphora representative turned him to the authorities?

…What **_wouldn’t_** he do?

“What exactly are ya lookin’ fer, hun? Weren’t much in the notes fer yer appointment. Jus’ makeup, and there’s a lot of that.”

Was there more to it than that? His sister had never worn the stuff, between the two of them Donald being the one who wore the most makeup. Or any, really. And even then, it had only been eyeliner. The young duck having been trying to emulate his favorite bands. Maybe some shortsighted attempt to look the part of a rock star, when he couldn’t ever possibly sound like—

“F-full coverage,” he answered.

She nodded, and pulled out a little swatch sample from her black apron, holding it up to Donald’s face. What was that supposed to do? Was it magic? Oh, Donald hoped not. He hated magic. It always acted up around him.

Remembering the blouse and how women liked to color coordinate their makeup and clothes, he quickly added, “Purple. Something to go with purple.”

His tail quivered, uncomfortable in the store, to be seen. He didn’t care about dressing up as a woman, he had done it before on adventures when necessary. But with so many people in the store, any one of them could recognize him at the court house when his appointment came. There were so many witnesses, so many ways everything could go wrong. 

“… Purple. Got it.” She looked him up and down slowly, then disappeared, leaving Donald alone, or alone as he could be in a busy store. He gently rolled the stroller back and forth. Lulling the boys into a nap so early in the day would make getting them to bed at their usual time a nightmare. Donald doubted he’d be getting any sleep tonight, but it was the more favorable option over the triplets crying in the store while he was trying not to draw attention to himself.

The longer he sat, the deeper a very justified paranoia dug into his mind, burying itself in his thoughts and then latching onto everyone that passed. He glanced around the store, at the women milling about inside, minding their own business. Only they weren’t—their eyes, their attention, were all on him. The chattering buzz of voices that came from a crowd were all directed toward him, whispering about the strange duck at the vanity.

_That man was asking for products meant for a woman? He brought babies into a makeup store? What was he thinking? Was the duck really trying to pass as a woman? Did he really think he could? What a freak. What a bad parent. Why was he doing it? For nefarious purposes? Someone should call the police. Alert the authorities. The duck doesn’t deserve those ducklings—_

“You good, hun?” Donald snapped out of his daze, blinking and looking down to see he had stopped rolling the stroller.

The white feathers on his knuckles were standing up from how tightly he was gripping the handle. His head shook and he snapped fingers in front of his eyes, not caring how crazy it made him look. Everyone was already watching him. Maybe if he made _them_ uncomfortable, they’d look away.

His head was turned firmly to the side, he didn’t want to look into the vanity mirror. He didn’t need to see himself to learn how to put on makeup. There were diagrams and stuff for that, right? Donald wasn’t actually going to let the woman put any on him. Maybe people would be suspicious of him, but if they didn’t see what he looked like in makeup, didn’t know, they couldn’t prove anything, right?

He just had to clarify one thing.

“It’s not for me…it’s not.” Blue eyes stared into green, and Donald’s heart flipped nervously in his chest. He needed another person to understand him, please, just the once.

“…Whatever ya say, hun.” She spoke slowly, but Donald couldn’t tell if it was sincere. Did she believe him, was she humoring him? He didn’t know and the worry had him wanting to grip her shoulders and shake until he did.

But he didn’t, instead watching as she lined up makeup items he couldn’t begin to name on the vanity. Purple, white, brown, black, none of it made any sense to Donald, but he didn’t speak, just sat quietly and listened as she placed papers with diagrams on them. They listed all of the different ways and places the makeup was supposed to go. He raptly listened she explained what every item she had brought out was and what it was meant for.

Donald listened and used one of the example sheets and a pen she’d brought out to write down everything that was said, nodding along as the representative spoke, asking questions slowly and only when he absolutely needed to. There was so much to learn, more than Donald had anticipated. Primer, foundation, contouring, mascara, bronzer, layers. What had surprised him most was the amount of brushes required for each. Well, not required, but recommended.

He refused her offers to do his face, only allowing her to swatch different foundations and lipstick colors on his wrist. There was sad look on her face when he refused, and Donald hated how much it resonated with him. Because he wasn’t _sad_ , he was tired. How could he be sad, blue, somber, depressed—whatever the modern label was— when he had the three of the most precious gifts a duck could ever receive laying in the stroller beside him?

It didn’t matter that they kept him up at all hours of the night, or that he hadn’t had any time to himself in over six months, that his health had taken a serious decline since their hatching, or that his life’s savings were going faster than he could have anticipated.

The triplets made him smile when he felt his lowest, they were the cutest little ducklings Donald had ever seen, they didn’t mock him when he sang to them; more than anyone else before, the boys accepted and loved him unconditionally.

Everything he did was for his boys and Donald couldn’t be happier to be doing it for them….

He couldn’t be. So, Donald did what he could.

He listened, and he learned.

**Act Three, Scene One**

Donald hadn’t gotten any sleep the night before and though it was still relatively early in the day, he didn’t take the rare opportunity to nap. Food was more important, which was why an egg and a single slice of bacon was currently sizzling away in a skillet. The pleasant smell of coffee filled the kitchen as the pot brewed in its holder and his stomach growled. Donald pat his feathery belly, mentally telling it soon.

He grinned as he walked around the kitchen, setting up the boys’ formula breakfast and a plate for his own. Great day, wonderful day. The sun hadn’t risen yet, but Donald was sure it would be a beautiful rise. There would be perfect weather, flowers blooming, no traffic at all, and not a single accident or unlucky incident all the way to the Duckburg courthouse.

Today was the day he would officially become the triplet’s guardian, after all.

Donald couldn’t scarcely believe it. Everything since he had first come up with his brilliant plan had gone so smoothly, none of the usual misfortune that followed him. The boys had been prefect angels, he had taken a break from houseboat repairs and actually relaxed, read one of the books he had borrowed from the library—

_First-Time Hatchling: An Honest Guide to Staying Sane in your Duckling’s First Year._

Fascinating read!

His tail waggled behind him and Donald tittered at his own excitement. He hadn’t felt so full of life since the boys had taken their first breaths. Hatching from their eggs and twittering, imprinting on him and filling his life with a renewed sense of purpose. The prospect of having the triplets finally, _legally_ , recognized as his had reinvigorated the duck.

Donald hummed softly as he flipped the bacon over with a fork, not much longer and it would be done. Then he could eat, prepare for the full day ahead, and finally have everything he needed to get their lives back on track. How wonderful! Donald’s shoulders shimmied as he cooked, adding salt and pepper to the sunny-side up egg.

Not long, and the food was fully cooked. Donald expertly flipped the egg and bacon slice onto his plate. It was prefect, a cyclops smile. Maybe once he had the houseboat fixed up, he could have a proper, full smiley face. Now, wouldn’t that be extravagant! So unnecessary! Donald hopped, kicking the heels of his webbed-feet together before landing, only wincing slightly at the pain from his injured foot. Leaving his food, he turned from the table to the sink to quickly clean the skillet, still humming. Wouldn’t want the grease to get hard and sticky, now would he? Best to clean things right away while they were still warm.

Oh, he couldn’t wait to teach the boys something so simple. All his little house care tips and tidbits. They’d be regular homemakers by the time he was through with them. He had the time to do it, or would, once the threat of losing them was gone. And it would be, only a few more hours.

His happy little hum died off as something cold and wet ran over the tops of his feet. He looked down and quacked, dropping the skillet into the sink.

Water had begun leaking out of the cabinet underneath the sink.

Oh no, oh no, oh no. Donald bent down to open the cabinet and, yup-yup, there it was, a crack in the main pipe. He frowned, shaking his head as the thought of what to do. There wasn’t time for a proper replacement, he had to be at the courthouse within the next few hours. And Donald still had to do his makeup, wake the boys, and feed them. He needed something to contain the leak just long enough for him to make his court date and return. Not too long, or at least it shouldn’t be, if his research had been right.

Hm, hm, hm. What to do, what to do?

A figurative lightbulb going off; Donald stood and rushed to where his repair tools were, in a milk crate box sitting outside of the bathroom; he reached around the screwdrivers, hammers, and nails, for a thick roll of silver duct tape. Perfect. He hurried back to the kitchen and starting from above the crack in the pipe, began wrapping the sticky adhesive, not stopping until there was a thick layer around nearly the entire thing.

The leak had been sealed, for the moment, but that didn’t stop apprehension from pouring out of Donald like his own leak had sprung, making his brows furrow and his beak pull into a tight frown. Had his bad luck finally…

No, no. The sink was old and bound to have leaks eventually, today was just that eventuality. A leaky pipe was not a sign of bad luck, just an aging houseboat. There was no reason for Donald to worry, everything would be fine. In a few hours he would be back form the court house and he could replace the pipe, probably with one from the harbor’s local scrapheap. This wasn’t a set back and Donald wasn’t going to focus on it. He had something much more important to focus on—

Doing his makeup.

Closing the cabinet door, Donald made short work of his breakfast. He had wanted to spend time really savoring his first fresh cooked meal in weeks, but the busted pipe had taken the rest of his free time. Still, it didn’t stop drool from building up inside his beak as he chomped away at the bacon and practically swallowed the egg whole. Not even a proper taste and, oh, his stomach rumbled, dissatisfied with the meager amount. But it would have to wait—he could make more, a celebratory brunch, _after_ he returned successful from his court appointment.

And he would.

Forgoing his own advice of washing dishes while they were still hot, Donald dumped his plate in the sink and went back to his room. Inside, he picked up the purple blouse and pink heels that had been laid out on his hammock. The blouse had dark, purple poufy sleeves, a deep v-cut, and a lighter, lilac front. Outdated fashion, it wasn’t something he could ever see his sister wearing, because she hadn’t. The shirt being some cheap thing their uncle had bought for her to wear during a house party, she had refused and instead stolen Donald’s dress shirt, which he had been all too grateful for; it meant he didn’t have to go to the party. Sometimes, he wondered if Della had done it on purpose, knowing how he felt…

Blowing out a hot puff of air, Donald grabbed the instruments of his disguise and went back down below deck.

All he had to do was shower, get dressed, do his makeup, wake and feed the boys, then go down to the courthouse. Simple, easy, nothing would go wrong. The leaky pipe had been a fluke, nothing more. Or so Donald told himself as he went into the bathroom, head down as he passed the broken mirror, placed his clothes on the toilet seat, and hopped in the tub for a quick shower. The porcelain tub was no good for the boys, what with the red stains and mold on the ceiling, but it was more than good enough for Donald.

Better than piranha infested waters, which he had bathed in before. More than once.

Donald hopped out of the tub after a proper scrub, and dried off using a towel, his good mood returning at the clean feeling. Less than ten minutes, and that had still been the longest, most refreshing shower Donald had the pleasure of enjoying in months. See? A good sign. Nothing was going to go wrong.

Dried off, the duck slipped on the purple blouse, tugging it down and floofing up the shoulders. He may not have had the same impressive muscle mass as before the boys had hatched, but his shoulders were still sharper than most women’s. The poof of the shoulders hid that, even if the deep v-cut of the front drew attention to his lack of breasts. But, there were flat-chested women, and Donald wasn’t going to stuff his shirt with toilet paper like some insecure teenager.

Toilet paper was an expensive resource and he would loathe wasting it on something that wouldn’t look convincing anyway. No man in their right mind, or woman for that matter, would ask Donald about his non-existent breasts. It would be the height of unprofessionalism and rudeness—an attitude the duck hoped others would hold when it came to his wig as well. The white doll’s hair didn’t look fake, per say, it just looked…off. The kind of hair that would have someone raising their brows and wondering, but never asking out loud.

He would wait until doing his makeup to put on the shoes; even without walking, they hurt. His cheapskate of an uncle had only ever bought Donald one pair of hiking shoes his entire youth, and those had been a size too big. Had he known how much more painful the opposite of that was, he never would have complained. Well, he would have, just a lot less. Probably.

Next would be his makeup, the real time-consumer of the morning.

After his consultation at Glaphora, Donald had taken the sample makeup he’d received— some of it looking like actual full-sized product, but he hadn’t the will to ask if it was or why—and stuffed it in the bathroom underneath the sink cabinet, the only other objects inside being spare toilet paper and cleaning supplies. He hadn’t touched the little bag of products since hiding them away, not wanting to waste any until the day of. It was why he was starting so early, to give himself time to get it on right. If he messed up, he would have the time to retry, at least once or twice, before he was out of makeup.

Then, there was the second, much less important reason why he had avoided the bathroom the days following his brilliantly dreadful plan’s concoction.

In spite of the bathroom’s need of extensive repairs, Donald hadn’t spent any time making them since coming up with his guardianship plan. More than the mold being dangerous to breathe in, it was the room with the most reflective surfaces. The feathers on the back of Donald’s neck stood on end as his eyes constantly bounced around in an effort to avoid them. The duck hadn’t looked at himself in months, not since well before the boys had been hatched.

No, that wasn’t right, he had. Once.

The scars on his knuckles, hidden behind white feathers, ached from phantom pains at the memory.

Donald took a deep breath, shaking his head. None of that now. Everything was going so well. He didn’t need to muck it up by remembering unimportant things. Maybe he wouldn’t even replace the mirror when the time came. Not like it was necessary. What did the duck use it for? Donald had no one to look good for except his boys, and they didn’t care what their uncle looked like.

Precious, sweet things.

Donald could do his makeup without looking too deeply into the mirror, why would he need to, if he was careful?

Well, he was about to find out. And he did. He slowly primed his face with a sticky clear goo that settled lightly on his feathers and patting over it with another sticky goo, only white. It was only after he had fully applied the foundation that he remembered the sales associate had said to start with the eyes. Oh well. Those were what Donald would have the easiest time with, he needed to focus on the parts he was unfamiliar with. He applied the contour, feeling silly until it was properly blended in. Next was the blush, then finally the deep purple lipstick. He puckered his bill as he applied it, struggling not to smile as he thought about the sight he must make—what a dame.

He lifted the mascara brush to his eye, staring intently at a broken shard of mirror as he—

Saw a pair of eyes that weren’t his own.

He dropped the mascara brush and hopped back from the sink, a foot crashing through the rotted floor boards when he landed. Donald yelped, his bill slamming onto the sink as he fell, making him bite his tongue. Splinters dug into the sides of his leg and he hastily pushed himself up with shaky arms. He spat blood and stuck his tongue out, eyes crossed in an attempt to assess the damage.

Ow, ow, ow.

Donald lifted his leg out of the now perfectly resembling a webbed-foot hole in the floor, sitting back on his rear as he started picking splinters out of his leg, wincing at the pain. His tongue hung out the side of his face, allowing blood to drip out the side of his bill. Why-oh-why, everything had been going so well….

And it still would. This was…his fault. He knew the floors were rotted; he never should have gotten spooked by his own reflection. Because that’s all it was. Anything more was just…nothing. Just his tired mind playing tricks on him.

If only he had the comfort that came with the ignorance of believing ghosts weren’t real. Because they were; he had met them, fought them. But that didn’t mean one was haunting him. Judging him. Hating him.

Donald forced himself to stand, legs spread to avoid the hole in the floor. There was still more to do. His makeup wasn’t finished, and Donald still needed to pin his short hair down and attach the wig. Wake the boys, feed them, and change them.

The pain in his leg, stemming from his foot, was excruciating. And much as he tried, Donald couldn’t bring back the carefree joy he had felt making breakfast. His mood had been sucked down into the hole in the floor, leaving the duck back in his usual state of numb distress.

He picked up the dropped mascara brush and looked back into the mirror, freezing as a ghost stared back. She looked so despondent.

“Oh, Della, Della, Della….” He placed a hand on the edge of the mirror, staring at his sister’s reflection. She didn’t look herself. Since when did Della Duck wear makeup? Frilly blouses? His twin would be insulted if she knew how Donald was representing her.

Guilt bubbled up inside Donald and he gagged as the thick emotion lodged itself in his throat. He was here, and Della wasn’t. If the universe was going to take anyone, it should have been him. It had been trying for so long, so why? Why was he allowed to live? Pretending to be someone he could never possibly hope to mimic? Taking her place, raising her ducklings….they would have so much more if Della was still with them. The family would still be together; closer than ever if it had been Donald who disappeared instead of Della.

Donald should have paid more attention to Scrooge. He should have noticed his sister’s cagey behavior the day before her departure. He should have done everything he could to convince her the boys were worth more than any adventure. The unlucky duck was supposed to be the reasonable one between the three, the common sense, the straight man. And he had failed...himself, Scrooge, his sister, the ducklings.

Self-loathing forced its way up alongside the guilt and Donald coughed, the corners of his eyes stinging with unshed shame.

But Donald didn’t, wouldn’t, _couldn’t_ cry. His grip around the mascara handle tightened and he grit his teeth, steadfast determination pushing him past the pain. Donald didn’t deserve the luxury of grief and he didn’t own enough makeup to fix the mistakes tears would create. Not to mention how long it had taken the duck to look even halfway decent. There was no time to cry.

Donald brought the mascara brush to his eye and began to delicately curl it around his thin, black lashes.

No, no time for crying.

He had a court appointment to make.

**Credits Roll**

The door to the houseboat slammed open and Donald pushed the stroller ahead of him, not caring where it rolled into the living room. He kicked the door closed behind him and winced at the stinging pain it produced. The heels had hurt when he’d first put them on, but after walking for hours, the pain was agonizing. It was like he had been walking on needles for the better part of two hours. Had he known the pain would be so great, he would have taken the risk of going barefoot.

_No, he wouldn’t._

He walked into the kitchen, tracking mud behind him. The pink heels were no longer recognizable, caked in mud as they were. The entire time Donald had been in the courthouse, rain had poured. There would be puddles upstairs, in the bathroom, from the leaky roof Donald had yet to fix.

The duck didn’t care as he placed a piece of paper onto the kitchen counter. It was an official document, with red stamps and cursive signatures. Donald’s shoulders sagged as he leaned over the paper, a weight he hadn’t realized he was carrying finally lifting.

He had done it. A court signed order appointing Donald Duck as the triplet’s secondary guardian. He could make decisions on the boys’ mother’s behalf if the necessity came.

“We did it,” Donald smiled tiredly down at the paper. The boys were safe now. No one would question his care of them and once the houseboat was fixed, he would never have to worry about them being taken away again.

Already on the counter, besides the guardianship order, was the folder the daycare had given him. He shuffled it over and flipped through to the check list, the second to last page inside: birth certificate, list of immunizations, emergency contact list, and proof of guardianship or custody. Everything he needed, the day before the end of the month, too. Donald Duck didn’t need special treatment to get things done. Hard work and perseverance: that’s all he ever needed. Nothing, no one else. The stamped paper of approval was proof of that.

Satisfied he had everything he needed, Donald pulled out the final page. His heart stilled in his chest, then picked up speed double time. He read then reread, an unsteady hand rubbing down his face as he did, smearing his makeup.

That was…a lot of zeros. Just for the application fee. He read further down, shaking his head as he did, wig swaying and fake hair swishing into his face. More zeros. An unreasonable amount, impossible. The mascara must be playing with his vision because if that price was right, then—

He couldn’t afford the daycare. Just a year, and half his savings would be wiped out. What…what was he to do?

Donald stepped away from the counter and hissed at the pain in his heel.

“Frickity-fracking shoes!” He hopped and struggled to pull one off, only for the other’s heel to snap. He grunted and fell, banging his head on the side of the counter on his way down.

“Gah!” He rolled onto his knees, clutching the back of his head over the wig. He grit his teeth, eyes clenched shut as he rocked with the pain. “Gwawawah.”

A metallic clink caused his eyes to snap open, and he looked over at the cabinet underneath the sink just as the door burst open and water came spilling out from inside. He tilted to the side as the water poured from the cabinet to the floor, drenching his legs and rolling forward in the kitchen.

Donald cursed everything then: Della, the daycare, his uncle, his luck, the world. His houseboat was flooding and he couldn’t afford the daycare; his plans had gone well the days before because failing at the end was so much crueler. 

The universe had set him up so high just for the pleasure of watching him fall, knocking him into a wet, mocking mess that reflected everything he had lost and his failures back at him. Who he saw reflected back at him in the water was an amazing woman, adventurer, and she would have made an even better mother, if only she had been patient.

But she hadn’t, and Donald was all that was left. Inadequate, disabled, poor, a broken shell of a duck who had thought makeup and a frilly shirt would be enough to glue his pieces back together. The universe knew how worthless he was; it had been trying to correct the mistake of his creations ever since he hatched. Donald had struggled to survive through it all. He had been convinced of some greater purpose, that his suffering had to mean something. He was reminded of the promise he had given their grandmother before her passing….

_“Take care of your sister” his granny told him, patting his cheek fondly. “Little trouble maker, that one. You’ve got to be the big brother and keep her out of danger.” Donald was only a few seconds older than his sister, but he still puffed up his tiny chest, filled with a sense of pride and purpose. He was the big brother, the responsible one! Oh, no adult ever asked anything of him._

_Defect Duck. Disaster Donald. That’s what they called him. Not Granny, though._

_“I will, nana.” He smiled, tilting into her soft hand. “I promise.” Donald gave his best military salute, smile dropping as he tried to look like a super serious navy officer. “You can count on me.”_

_Donald would **never** let anything happen to his sister. _

He had broken the only promise their dearly departed grandmother had ever asked of him and had survived while his sister hadn’t. The universe had never been so determined to destroy Della Duck the way it had Donald. Had it grown frustrated by his constant thwarted attempts of destruction? Had he allowed the world to take what it had wanted for the past twenty-five years, would Della still be with them? Would the cosmic entity that cursed Donald’s name have been satisfied? Would his boys be better off? If Donald were to finally succumb, stop moving, never again get back up after being knocked down….

Scrooge would take the triplets in, surely. The old miser owed the boys’ mother that much. He would provide for them better than Donald ever could. They would be happy, cared for, and away from the uncle who had failed to keep their mother safe. Who _would_ fail them—had failed them, over and over for the past six months. Bouts of anger, uncontrollable fury; how many times had he made them cry? How many of their toys had he broken during a rage induced episode?

Trembling arms moved, and Donald looked from above as he lowered himself into the water, soaking his shirt, glossing over white feathers. Aware of the action, but unconscious of taking it, like a spectator watching a sad puppet show. Thin slips of string had tethered around the duck’s legs, arms, and bill as he lay in the freezing water. Unfeeling to the cold, Donald’s eyes slid shut as he listened to the calming sound of a running faucet, like a stream. Or a bubble bath being filled. Donald had always loved those. The cold seeped past his waterproof feathers the longer he lay, reaching the skin beneath and cooling that innate anger that was always simmering just below the surface. It rose above his beak— how long before he was engulfed completely?

A bubble bath sounded so nice. That’s what he must be having, why he felt calm as water poured over him. The warmth pressing against his chest must be the bubbly suds. How nice to have his plastic tugboat again, splashing in the tub moving as far as his short arms could push it. No worries. No missing sister or unplanned children to anchor him down.

Heat began building within him again, stemming from his chest and burning its way up. He ignored it, for once finding comfort in the warmth. All bubble baths were warm. White dots danced behind Donald’s eyelids, growing brighter as they swayed, and he imagined the rhythm they moved to. A sweet, low melody. He wanted to hear more of it. A beautiful sound, one that reminded him so much of—

“ _Gwah-wah-wah!_ ”

Donald’s eyes flashed open in alarm and he shot up from the water, arms burning from the effort as he gasped for air. Coughing and struggling to breath, choking on water, he looked up to see the houseboat filled with water several inches deep. It had reached the living room, washing the stroller up against a living room wall.

His boys!

Donald blinked around, from the open cabinet door to his slowly flooding houseboat. His refurbished floors would be ruined. The boys’ nursery room rug, unsalvageable. Walls, side paneling, cabinets, furniture, all in need of repairs or replacement. Every single minuscule amount of damage meant more time, more money Donald didn’t have would need to be spent. The water wasn’t high enough to reach the ducklings, not even close, but—

Oh, oh, what had he done?

The heat in his chest dissipated with every gasp of air, and suddenly Donald was freezing. He shivered, dragging himself back up to his knees, using a short outstretch of wall to hold himself upright. His head throbbed and he could no longer hear the triplets’ wails, only a high pitched ringing in his head. Donald was sitting in a ruin of his own making. Failure, failure. As things were, the houseboat wouldn’t make it another week, much less eighteen years. Donald swallowed and looked up from the water to the piece of wall he was gripping, a small outcropping that did nothing to separate the kitchen from the living room.

On it hung a large, yellowed phone. It was old, plastic, had come with the boat. Only two other birds knew the number. He stretched to yank it by the curled cord, catching the bulky handset before it could hit the water. Donald cradled it to his chest, teeth chattering as he reached back up to dial a number he would deny ever having memorized.

Unchecked arrogance had killed his sister, he wouldn’t let pride take her children.

The phone rang and Donald held the receiver close to his head, biting his bottom bill as he waited for it to pick up. Water continued to rise in the houseboat and Donald’s hearing slowly returned, the throbbing in his head subsiding. It still hurt, but his heels felt worse, the icy water doing nothing to dull the pain. Completing the houseboat’s repairs would be pushed back months because of this. All his hard work washed away.

Going it alone wasn’t working, and if Donald was being honest with himself, had never worked. His best times with the boys were when Panchito and José were helping him out. But Donald couldn’t continue to rely on their generosity. He wouldn’t anchor them back from their hopes and dreams. But there was someone he knew who had none of those things. Someone who went where life carried him and never wanted for more than he was given.

A bird who could step in stride with Donald’s bad luck and carry the boys safely along with him.

C _lick_.

“Hello, hello, hello; it’s you’re lucky da—”

“Gladstone,” Donald cut his cousin off, voice cracking. It hadn’t done that since he was a teenager, what was wrong with him. Donald shook his head and wet mascara spilled down his painted face, dripping into the water in black swirls.

“Wha— _Donald?_ You **never** call; what’s going on?”

His wig fell of his hunched head, landing in the water with a plunk and drifting away with the weak current. He stared down at where it had fell, at his sister’s reflection, black rimming her eyes, staining her hollowed cheeks.

She looked like a corpse.

“…I need help.”

**Author's Note:**

> So this is a concept I've been thinking about for a while. Like, it is SO hard to raise kids. There is so much unexplored potential with the idea of Donald raising the boys since before they even hatched. It's basically glossed over in the show and I want to go deep and really dig into the early days/years of Donald taking care of the boys. Also, just the thought of him seeing Della looking back whenever he would look in a mirror really got to me. 
> 
> ALSO
> 
> Huhu, this is "The Pilot" to a long form Donald/Gladstone centric series I'll be writing. It will be over the two raising the boys together while Donald fixes the boat and all the interpersonal drama/high-jinks that can bring about. It'll have a sit-commy vibe with overarching themes rather than plot. 
> 
> Feedback is greatly appreciated.


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